


The Scars That Mark My Body

by The_Eldritch_IT_Gay



Series: Blood and Spirit [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Depression, Dissociation, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Wound Tending, Zevran and Amal both have a lot of issues, mentions of slavery and blood magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eldritch_IT_Gay/pseuds/The_Eldritch_IT_Gay
Summary: When Zevran took the contract to kill the 2 surviving Grey Wardens, he had hoped it was a suicide mission. Instead of a legendary battle-hardened warrior, Zevran finds himself at the hands of a sad elven mage that spares his life.





	The Scars That Mark My Body

**Author's Note:**

> Since both his tattoos and scars are mentioned a lot in this fic, here's a piece I just refined of Amal! [x](https://the-eldritch-it-gay.tumblr.com/post/185228189677/refined-this-sketch-of-amal-from-a-couple-months)  
> I started on this fic back when in February, shortly after I started playing DAO and right after I met Zevran, and it's been sitting in my WIP folder all this time. But finally, I got around to finishing it. This fic highlights a lot more of Amal's behavior (skittishness, dissociation, anxiety) because even without blood magic, Kinloch Hold will Fuck You Up.  
> Also, my Mahariel is here because I imagine both him and Amal are Grey Wardens during the Blight, mainly just because I want to write the two of them being friends.

Amal Surana was a strange man.

He was not what he had expected of the fabled Grey Wardens, certainly. Alistair, while more kind and optimistic than he would expect, was closer to what he had pictured. A strong, armored warrior dedicated to fighting the blight. Amal was different. For starters, he was an elf and a mage. Not unheard of within the Grey Wardens, but definitely not the first thing that came to mind. Secondly, he was small, even for an elf. He barely came up to Alistair’s shoulders, closer in height to a dwarf though with none of the muscle or mass. Lastly, he seemed… distant. Sad. Even in the short time Zevran had known him, he would frequently see the man staring silently and blankly into the distance, eyes glazed. Amal always seemed like he wasn’t entirely there, a perpetual frown on his handsome face.

And he was handsome. Dark skin- darker than his own, pointed ears that were scarred and uneven, curving downward unlike most elves he came across. His long wavy dark hair came down just past his shoulders, intricate feather-shaped tattoos on most of his face, framing those dark, distant eyes. He seemed hardened from battle in a way that wasn’t physical, though he could see pale scars creeping up his neck from under his robe.

Which led him to one of the strangest things about Amal. Despite the heaviness he carried and the distance in his eyes, he still showed kindness. A softness and timidness that seemed strange for a legendary battle-hardened Grey Warden.

He had healed Zevran instead of finishing him off or tying him up to interrogate him, he advocated for his companions to spare his life, and hardly needed to think before agreeing to let Zevran come with them.

It was a kindness Zevran did not expect- a kindness he did not deserve- not after all he’s done.

The group found a nice clearing by a nearby river to set up camp for the night as the sun began to set. It was something they had clearly done many times before, falling into their routine with ease- setting up tents, starting a fire, fetching water from the stream and starting to prepare a meal. There were other companions aside from who he had met; a rather imposing Qunari as expressionless as Amal that simply glared at him, a young dark-skinned Dalish elf with silver hair and pale tattoos that similarly stared at him warily, a red-haired human woman who was the only person who seemed genuinely pleased for him to be there Zevran watched the group curiously, feeling the sharp glares of Morrigan and Alistair on him the entire time.

The woman, Leliana, had sat by him, idly chatting in an oddly cheerful tone. As pretty and kind as she was, Zevran only half paid attention to her conversation, drained, sore, and feeling oddly out of place.

After a while, though, Zevran couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with the dried blood and grime coating him. Standing with a wince, he excused himself and walked over to the river. Alistar leered at him from where he sat by the fire but didn’t stop him. The river was a short distance away, past a small cluster of trees just outside the clearing. He briefly had time to wonder where Morrigan was when suddenly a curled wooden staff shot out of the darkness, hitting him in the chest, stopping him in his tracks. From the shade of a tree nearby, Morrigan stepped out, her piercing yellow eyes glaring at him.  

“I’d be careful if I were you,”

“I am simply going to wash up in the stream,” Zevran said, grinning lazily, “You are more than welcome to watch me to make sure I don’t run, if you see fit.”

Morrigan scoffed, pulling her staff back.

“You know very well that’s not what I mean,” She took a step closer, purple magic sparking at her fingertips, “If you hurt Surana I will personally see you die a slow and agonizing death.”

“I was not planning to, but I will keep that in mind,” Zevran nodded, “I take it you two are close, no?”

Morrigan didn’t answer him, scoffing again and turning to walk back to camp. She bumped into his side- his injured side- and she did so and Zevran winced. He had deserved that, though.

* * *

 

The stream was calm and clear as Zevran came up to the rocky riverside, the water reflecting the warm hues of the evening sky. With a sigh, he carefully started peeling off his leather armor, careful to not strain his side too much as he did so. It would need to be repaired, his cuirass was now battered and perforated, stained with his blood. His shirt was torn and soaked with blood as well, not that it mattered to him as much as the armor.

Pulling off his shirt, he sat down, dipping it in the stream and using it to scrub the blood off his body. The cool water easily washed away the blood, the swirls of red disappearing downstream. Looking at his side, he winced. The skin along his ribs was thoroughly bruised and the original laceration was bleeding slowly, having reopened at some point. He brought the cold cloth of his shirt to his side gently and flinched, wincing at the pain.

He would need to tend to that soon, Zevran knew, though he hadn’t exactly packed for this mission well. He hadn’t planned for there to be anything after the mission. It was just his luck.

Zevran was pulled from his thoughts as he heard footsteps approaching. Looking up, he was surprised to see Amal standing a bit away. He wasn’t wearing his mage robes, instead, he wore a simple black tunic, tan leggings and was barefoot. His dark hair was pulled up into a loose bun, stray strands falling in his face and catching the setting sunlight. The staff he normally carried was absent as well, leaving him unarmed and vulnerable in front of him, an assassin. It was something so wildly unwise it was impossible it was unintentional.

But then again, so was sparing his life.

Amal flinched at the eye contact, eyes wide, taking a stumbling step back. Before Zevran could say anything, though, he seemed to catch himself. He quickly regained his composure,  though his eyes remained glued to the ground.

“Sorry,”

Zevran blinked curiously for a moment before smiling, waving his hand.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Warden,”

“Sorry- I mean- I, um,” He started, stumbling over his words, “I figured your side was still pretty bad, no? I usually end up playing medic for the group, so I thought I could help- if you’d like, of course.”

It was the most Amal had spoken in the hours they’d known each other. He had seemed to be a man of few words, unsurprising considering how distant he seemed. Speaking now, though, Zevran could hear the anxiety that remained hidden behind his blank expression.

“Well I certainly won’t refuse such a handsome offer from a handsome man,” Zevran smiled, hoping to assuage Amal’s worry.

It seemed to work, slightly. Amal nodded, pulling out a small pouch from his satchel. He still avoided his eyes, a nervous energy radiating from him, like a frightened animal. As Amal knelt down next to him, he could see the faintest blush to his cheeks before it quickly faded as he focused on Zevran’s injury.

“Handsome…” Amal repeated quietly, almost absentmindedly as he gingerly inspected Zevran’s side.

Zevran wondered for a moment if he had even meant to say it aloud.

“Perhaps handsome was not the right word, but it doesn’t make it less true... unless you object?”

He could see the faintest bit of tension in Amal’s posture and worried he might have overstepped the line. Most might think flirting with the man who held his life in his hands was in poor taste, though Zevran was most definitely not above it. It was far easier than facing the facts- easier than facing that he nearly died, that he didn’t die like he had so badly wanted, that his life was now in the hands of another. Amal was very attractive, more so than he had expected. But he couldn’t ignore the sadness he carried, the skittishness, the emptiness. The least he could do for the man who spared his life is to not aggravate that.

“No, no,” Amal clarified, “I just… I… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

He ducked his head, pulling a clean cloth from his bag and wetting it in the stream before gently starting to clean the cut. His hands were steady and worn, cleaning his wound with practiced ease. Zevran couldn’t help but watch, occasionally hissing in pain, as the man worked. Amal paused, barely suppressing a flinch every time Zevran made a pained noise, eyes flicking up to Zevran’s face in thinly veiled fear. Freezing, waiting and bracing himself for something. It was something beyond simple worry that he, unfortunately, recognized easily. Something he saw far too often growing up, on the streets, in the young Crow recruits. So he let himself relax, stay quiet, hoping to put the other man at ease.

After a few minutes, it seemed to work, the well-hidden tension Amal carried fading slightly. While Amal continued to work, Zevran focused on his tattoos.

Similar feather-shaped tattoos to the one on his face curled down his forearms from under his tunic. Elegant curling designs that flowed into each other, broken only by the litany of scars Amal had. He could see more scars and tattoos peeking out from under his collar, some overlapping ones just visible under his hair on the back of his neck. The scars themselves seemed of varying ages, from varying injuries. Thick jagged scars, odd branching patterns Zevran could only guess were from spells, faint small burns. The thin raised lines along the arteries of his neck were familiar in a sickening way, much like Amal’s skittishness.

He had never spent time in Tevinter, but Antiva shared a border with it and he had on occasion seen traveling Tevinters, their elven slaves and servants. A select few of the slaves had similar markings along their arteries and veins, a distance in their eyes more profound than their unscarred brethren. What such scars were doing on a young Circle mage in Ferelden, Zevran didn’t want to know.

Even with those weighty scars, he was attractive. It was a strange balance, the scars of a slave and a battle-hardened warrior a sharp contrast to the gentle, elegant designs of his tattoos. The Crows had their own styles of tattoos, such as the ones Zevran had. But Amal’s were more delicate, more ornate and more detailed. Similar to what he had seen on Dalish, but slightly harsher, more extensive.

“That is a shame-” Zevran started, but broke off as Amal pressed lightly on his ribs and pain shot through him.

He managed to keep from making a noise, but Amal still froze for a tense moment.

“I promise, my Warden, I don’t bite. Especially not someone so kindly tending to my wounds,”

Much like his earlier attempts, it only seemed to slightly relax Amal. Whatever tension and anxiety the man carried, it was far too deeply ingrained to be assuaged with a simple comment.

“You might have broken a rib or two…” Amal said quietly, putting the now bloodied cloth down on his leather bag.

Amal’s calloused, scarred fingers gingerly felt along his ribs, frowning each time Zevran silently winced. It was only then Zevran noticed how the insides of his wrists were covered in the same thin scars that marked his neck, overlapping and so close together that some parts seemed to be almost entirely scar tissue. They all varied in age, some looking years old whilst others looked only months old. Amal must have noticed, quickly pulling his sleeves down to cover his wrists.

“It certainly feels like it,” Zevran laughed weakly, acting as though he either didn’t notice or care about the scars, “And here I thought you had simply magick-ed all the injuries away.”

A smile faintly flickered across Amal’s face, or perhaps simply a lessening of his perpetual frown. But as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared.

“A general healing spell in the field can work well enough for some things, or at least tie you over until the battle ends. If you fall, those injuries are hard to treat in the field, and usually require some more… targeted healing. Here, lie back.”

Amal gestured for Zevran to lie down, which Zevran did happily, even if the rock was not the most comfortable place to do so. He looked focused, more present than he had been before as he carefully moved Zevran’s arm to give him better access to his ribs. Once again, he started gently pressing along his ribs. When Zevran winced, out of the corner of his eye he saw a faint white light emanate from Amal’s fingertips. Almost instinctively, Zevran tensed but realized suddenly the pain was washed away in a wave of warm energy.

“Oh…,” Zevran said before he could stop himself, “That’s… nice.”

Amal simply nodded, still focused on his work. His fingers continued to feel along his ribcage, pausing at every wince Zevran made and focusing a healing spell to that area. It was soothing, each carefully targeted spell causing the tension to leave his body. He let his eyes close as Amal worked.

“You’re quite skilled at this, few of the mages I’ve come across focus on healing,”

Amal hummed softly, “I’ve always been sensitive to the Fade and spirits...”

For a moment, Zevran waited for an explanation, opening an eye and watching the man curiously, but Amal didn’t elaborate. It was hard to tell if it was purposeful or not- in the brief conversations he overheard between him and his companions he would often trail off, eyes glazed as his mind slipped somewhere distant.

“That helps, I take it?”

Amal made a small noise, blinking a few times as he seemed to pull himself out of a daze.

“Yeah. I, um, I can commune with the benevolent spirits of the Fade- Compassion, mainly- and they aid my abilities. People call us Spirit Healers, I think. We’re not- we’re not that common, but our healing can go beyond normal mages.”

“I suppose that would be rather useful, especially for the Grey Wardens, no?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve only been a Warden for a month or so,”

Zevran couldn’t help his look of surprise. A fresh recruit was not what he- or the Crows for that matter, from what he knew from the contract- expected. Amal wasn’t young but knowing that now, he seemed so much younger.

They both lapsed into silence as Amal continued his careful healing, and Zevran let his eyes close once more. It was soothing, the warm waves of magic that washed over him, easing any tension in his muscles, any pain from his wounds. Rarely had Zevran experienced such magic. The Crows rarely had mages within its ranks and such magic was seen as a luxury, not one any masters would waste on such disposable members.

He couldn’t help the small sense of guilt that crept up on him suddenly. Magic certainly was a renewable resource, but the fact that Amal was personally tending to his wounds, wasting time and mana-

Pushing the thoughts from his head, he forced himself to relax and just let Amal work.

After a while, he noticed Amal’s fingers straying from his ribs. Opening his eyes, he looked down to see Amal briefly trace over the lines of his tattoos before quickly returning to his healing.

“Do you like them?” Zevran asked.

“I don’t see too many tattoos,”

“Are most of what you see the ones on you?”

“I haven’t spent too much time seeing others, so I suppose in a sense,” Amal shrugged, seemingly not noticing Zevran’s joke or not caring, “The Dalish have Vallaslin, dwarves have brands for the casteless- neither are seen in Kinloch Hold. Humans occasionally have some, usually not large or extensive.”

“Tattoos are common among Antivan Crows, and I think tattoos are very attractive no?” Zevran grinned, eyeing Amal’s extensive tattoos, “Among city elves, tattoos aren’t that common, so you must just be a fan, no?”

“Not really a city elf,”

“No?”

“I was in the Tower for as long as I could remember, don’t remember ever being around elves. My parents, well, at least my mother was Dalish, as far as I know. Ane'lun says his Keeper might have known my mother, that she had been part of the clan decades ago. My father was an elf, but I don't know anything about him. I don’t remember much of anything before Kinloch, don't remember either of them, I might have been orphaned long before I was taken to the Tower. I don't know. I didn’t even know what the sky looked like until I left with the Wardens a month ago,”

Amal’s face remained expressionless as he spoke, speaking flatly, pulling away Zevran to pick up the cloth again and resume tending to the cut that still bled lazily. Zevran, though, was silent, processing what Amal had just said. He wasn’t exactly the outdoorsy type himself, he preferred the chaos of the cities, but even then he couldn’t imagine being cooped up in a dark tower for at least 20 years. Couldn’t imagine not knowing what the sky of all things looked like.

“And?” Zevran asked, “How do you like the sky? Does it live up to your expectations?”

Amal paused, glancing up at the sky for a moment, looking at the sunset and warm colors that bleed together. In the setting sun, his scars were painted gold against warm, dark skin. With the harsh shadows, he looked older, far more worn and weary. For a moment, though, his frown softened.

“As stupid as it sounds, I do love the sky, the gradients of color. Sunsets are my favourite,” Amal said, the momentary softness quickly replaced with a neutral mask, “If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to discuss something with you.”

It was so hard to read the man, his face barely showing any change in expression.

“Of course,”

Nodding, Amal spent a few moments in silence, focusing on Zevran’s side.

“You can leave,” Amal said suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Pardon?”

“If you would like, you are allowed to leave. I will not force you to fight a Blight and risk your life against darkspawn and an archdemon. It does not seem fair to have you risk so much just for freedom I could easily give.” Amal clarified, finally looking Zevran in the eyes, if only for a moment.

There was a vulnerable honesty there, mixed in with the empty sadness he held in his distant eyes.

“Your companions-” Zevran started but was quickly cut off by Amal.

“They have to respect my choices, we don’t always agree on everything, I know many of them see me as too altruistic. But that is something I can live with and I can easily make amends with them.”

Zevran was silent for a moment and Amal used the time to let off another healing spell, this time focusing on the now cleaned cut on his side. The warmth of the spell washed over him again and drove home once more Amal’s kindness towards him.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Warden, why are you doing this?”

The question seemed to give Amal pause.

“I think we all deserve choices,” Amal said eventually, “I would be glad to welcome you to our party, as long as it is something you choose to do. If you choose to join, you will be like any other member of the group- instead of an indentured fighter worried about doing something wrong and me changing my mind about sparing you. I do not wish for there to be any misconceptions. You swore an oath to serve me, I will not force you to break that if you wish.”

He turned away from Zevran slightly, washing his bloodied hands in the stream and carefully gathering his things as he continued.

“If you chose to leave, though, then I give you some rations and repaired armor and weapons and whatever else you might need. You would have my blessing to break your oath. And I allow you to go on your way with no hard feelings. You are free to do whatever you like.”

“I see…,” Zevran nodded, trying to hide his shock at the situation, “If it is alright with you, I would like to stay with your group, at least for the time being.”

“You may change your decision at any time,” Amal said, as he offered his hand to help Zevran up, “Have you a tent?”

I was not planning to need one, Zevran thought, but simply shook his head.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Alright,” Amal said, picking up his bag and starting towards the camp, “I don’t believe Bodhan has any, but we’ll certainly be able to find a merchant who does soon enough.”

Zevran quickly grabbed his cuirass and shirt from the ground and followed.

* * *

 

Most of Amal’s companions were clustered around the main fire, though he could see Morrigan had her own fire and tent further away from the others. The Dalish elf was sharpening arrows, sitting next to a curled up wolf. He paused as they approached, watching Zevran closely. Alistair similarly looked up at the two of them briefly before returning his attention to the fire.

“Zevran will be staying in my tent until we get another tent,” Amal said, apropos of nothing, as he sat by the fire.

“Wait, what?” Alistair exclaimed, “Why on earth is that the best idea?”

Amal’s face remained expressionless as always, but Zevran could see the slight twitch to his ears before he shrugged.

“Would you prefer him to remain unsupervised whilst we all sleep?”

“N-no! But he was sent to kill us!”

“Which he failed to do. And he’s sworn his allegiance to our cause,” Amal said, “This is only temporary. And this way I can keep a close eye on him, you know I’m a light sleeper Alistair.”

“I agree with Amal,” Leliana added, “We saved his life, and he promised his loyalty to us,”  

Alistair frowned, shaking his head, “I still don’t think it’s a good idea, you have to agree with me don’t you Mahariel?”

The Dalish elf simply shrugged, going back to his work, “He’s allowed to make his own choices.”

“Allowing an assassin to sleep next to you is most unwise,” The Qunari commented flatly.

“And here I thought you already were aware of our darling Warden’s habit of making bad decisions,” Morrigan commented, having wandered over to the main fire.

“Like letting you come along,” Alistair muttered and Morrigan only chucked.

“While I don’t quite approve of the recruiting of an assassin, that is not what I came over for,” Morrigan started, turning to address Amal, “Before you get too comfortable with our new assassin, I was wondering if we could talk somewhere private, my tent perhaps?”

Zevran couldn’t help but grin, noticing the intention behind her words.

“Maker, I hate you all,” Alistair groaned.

Morrigan laughed again, walking back to her tent, Amal following after her eagerly. The lack of reaction from the rest of the companions led Zevran to believe this was not an uncommon occurrence. He watched, bemused, as he saw the two of them by Morrigan’s fire, Amal pressing himself up onto his tiptoes to try and kiss Morrigan. She still had to bend down a bit to let him steal a quick kiss. It was strange, seeing her smiling and gentle, seeing him slightly relaxed and focused.

He looked away, allowing them their privacy.

Zevran quickly excused himself to his- Amal’s- tent for the night.

He wasn’t sure what he expected, honestly. Maybe forbidden magic tomes and circles in blood. Instead, Amal’s tent looked rather plan inside. There was a pile of furs and a rough blanket that looked to be his bed. In one of the corners was a makeshift low table that had on it various herbs and components and bandages alongside worn books and journals. Zevran realized Amal must actually be the group's designated healer- though he seemed to play it off.

Curiously, he flipped through some of the books on the table. Most of them seemed to be journals, really, notes on things Amal had learned in his journeys. Politics, notes about certain people, about the darkspawn, how to make health potions. Detailed anatomical sketches, drawing of various herbs, sketches of their companions alongside notes in a foreign script. Far less interesting than Zevran had hoped. Though in one small journal, he found sheet music, looking to be composed by Amal himself, tucked in alongside drawings of various landscapes.

Not wanting to push his luck, Zevran put the books back down in their original places. He knew he should just set up his bedroll and get some rest, Amal had certainly healed him but god he felt exhausted now. It didn’t take long after discarding his armor and laying down on his bedroll before he fell asleep.

Sometime later, likely not more than a couple of hours, Zevran woke to the shifting of fabric. Half opening his eyes, Zevran saw Amal sitting down on the pile of furs. Pulling off his tunic, Amal yawned, tossing it aside before half-pulling a blanket over him and curling up. Before Zevran himself could fall asleep, he couldn’t help but notice something. Even in the darkness, he could make out part of Amal’s back that was facing him. He only had looked curious to see if Morrigan had left any marks like he thought she might; which she either hadn’t or Amal’s dark skin was hiding them.

But Zevran saw something else. Scars. Many, many scars. More of the thin scars were clustered along the back of his neck, his upper arms. Small branching scars and burns were scattered along his side. More noticeable, though, were the thick overlapping scars of varying ages covering his back, all certainly not new.

More scars than a young man who hadn’t ever seen the sky up until a few months ago should have. Scars that would even seem excessive on a seasoned soldier.

Zevran didn’t know all the inner workings of the circle, but he had heard rumours, everyone had. About the treatment of mages, about people who knew someone who was taken to the circle and never came back, about the ways the Templars and senior mages kept the young mages under control. Hearing horrific stories about the torture and abuse mages endured was one thing. Seeing the effects of it, evidence of it, was another thing entirely.

It would have been too easy to kill him then, silently bury a dagger at the base of his skull, slice open the arteries that were conveniently marked with so many scars already. He could later convince himself it was a mercy, putting someone out of their misery. The man was so broken and distant, so reckless and foolish, sleeping with his back to an assassin.

Zevran rolled onto his other side, turning away from Amal.

Perhaps, he realized with a sad ache, he was not the only one with a death wish.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's not really an OC unless you project at least a little bit of your trauma onto them


End file.
